


Oath

by metalboxes



Series: Oath [1]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-18 19:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalboxes/pseuds/metalboxes
Summary: “The Oath-broken are not true traitors to the Warmaster, and so remain beneath his notice, but are those who have failed in battle or have been crippled by grievous wounds. Without the blessings of the Dark gods to mend their limbs or knit their flesh with mutation, the Oath-broken fashion their own replacements; blades sutured to stumps, xenos appendages grafted into sockets and ragged armor patched with whatever materials the Eye deems fit to provide.”This is their tale. It's a shame they're both idiots.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written a long time ago. My first csm ocs.

Malak drunkenly staggered to the apothecarium clutching the stump of where his arm used to be. Staring at the doors painted over with glistening blood and other unspeakable bodily fluids, he wondered why he even bothered coming here anymore. Disgusting nurglites, always dropping by to vandalise the place. With a sigh, he slumped against it, doors opening with a reluctant squelch.

Inside was a lone figure, hunched over part of a xenos specimen.

“Dariel.”

The figure turned around, and a single baleful augmetic eye blinked owlishly from the gloom. Then his face split wide open into a grin.

“Malaak!” He drawled out enthusiastically. “How are you doing on this fine day?”

“How do you think I’m doing?” Malak ground out between clenched teeth. He gestured to himself with his stump. “There is something wrong with this picture. Could it be the missing limb? Do you think so?”

Dariel pouted. On the scarred face of an amoral traitor he knew him to be, it came out less sympathetic than probably intended. “There’s really no need to be so hostile, my dear. Do you want me to fix that up for you?”

“If you would.”

“Luckily for you, I have just the thing.” Dariel turned around to rifle through the dissection table. Malak leaned back on the wall and watched him. After a moment, he slumped back and shut his eyes.

“…Your doors are spouting all kinds of hideous secretions. Again.”

He heard rather than saw the dismissive, expansive gestures that sent surgical tools clattering to the floor.

“No matter. They only muck up the outer doors anyway. They wouldn’t dare come in here, they know what I’d do to them if they did.”

“I could always take care of them for you, you know.”

The rummaging paused. “I am very well capable of handling myself, Malak. The second they come into my workplace I will scourge their unhygenic hides from the fabric of the warp. But until then, I see no reason to start yet another inter-warband war.”

Malak snorted. “That was only once, and he shot first. Good to know you’re not completely soft.”

“Good to know you care so much about poor little me.” He didn’t need to open his eyes to see the grin on the other’s face. He let the conversation idle and listened to Dariel bustle around the lab.

Just when the silence was becoming comfortable, it was broken by heavy clanking footsteps echoing towards him. He blearily opened his eyes to see Dariel approaching, something in hand.

Malak was not amused. “What is that thing.”

“Why, it’s your new arm of course!” Dariel grinned cheerfully, as if he didn’t see anything wrong with it. There was clearly something wrong with both it and him.

“That is certainly not my new limb. It is a fluffy, patchy monstrosity. It reminds me most of the illustrious Kor Phaeron. Where did you even find such a wrinkled thing.”

Dariel waved off his concerns airily. “Who cares? Besides, I don’t see anything wrong with it. Do you?”

“It is also half dissected.”

"Stop complaining and come here.”

Before he could do anything to stop him, Dariel was on him in a flash. He struggled against his grip, but Malak clamped down with an iron arm.

“Oh you poor thing, just about to pass out, are you? Let me take care of you.” That insufferable man cooed, taking the stump carefully in his hand and jamming the offending appendage on. Malak bit down a cry and suffered the indignation. The sooner this foolishness and dramatics were over, the sooner he could get an actual replacement.

After a bit of wiggling, Dariel pronounced his work done. The xenos limb hung limply from his elbow. “And now we wait for the gods to bestow their divine providence upon you and knit your flesh whole.”

“Are you quite done? You know the gods don’t favor men like us.”

Dariel laughed. Despite himself, Malak shivered. “You know I’m just having a little fun. I’ve got an actual augmetic arm off a white scar I’ve been saving right around here somewhere... should suit your fighitng style, the responsiveness is well above average-”

A sudden flash blinded the both of them. When the light receded, he lowered his arm blinking away the dancing spots in his vision. His arm felt strange. He had a sinking suspicion as to what just happened…

“Dariel.”

“Snerrk. Yes Malak?”

“There is a fuzzy monstrosity in place of my arm. fix it.”

“Well, it seems to be the will of the gods,” he said wryly, shrugging. “Who am I to disobey them?” Malak thought he rather spoiled the look of devout piety by sniggering into his hand.

Seeing as he was going to be of no help, Malak turned in a huff. Of course the chaos gods had a questionable sense of humour. Of course Dariel wasn’t going to replace it as long as he found it funny, which would be forever. He sighed. Well and truly fucked.

He might as well keep this ridiculous thing until he lost it. Any respect he may have had would be gone, but to be honest he didn’t have much in the first place. He shuffled out the doors which obligingly squidged open for him, an eye in the hinge blinking in sympathy as he tuned out the echoing laughter at his back.


	2. Chapter 2

Malak hammered at the Apothecarium doors, shouting obscenities and curses as he did. He had to venture past the plague marines without a helm and it didn’t put him in the best mood to say the bloody least. Grumbling to himself, he shouldered the doors open, taking care to avoid the squirming patches, knowing that they were sensitive.

He called out to the dimly lit chamber. “I know you have my helm, so don’t try anything.”

He waited for a flippant response, but was answered by silence. He wearily closed his eyes and tilted his head up, sighing as he silently prayed to the gods, but in doing so, didn’t notice the three figures silently turning to face him. "If you’ve given it to those Slaaneshi fuckers again, I am going to tell you right now that I will not hesitate to use yours as a chamber pot.“

Hearing the humming sound of an activated power field made him pause.

"Isn’t that a little-”

He snapped his eyes open. Dariel didn’t use power weapons. Too messy, he said, which was funny coming from him.

“….oh shit.”

What he was planning to do was turn the corner back out the door and run for his life, preferably past a large ritual gathering of the Possessed. Gods help him, he would even take some of the Slaaneshi marines. It probably would have worked too, but unluckily, something forced his hand.

A mischievous voice echoed from behind him, sing-songy and arrogant, past the open doors. “Malak! I heard you were looking for me?”

The three shifted their attention to the newcomer. The other two simultaneously drew their ornate, gilted chainswords.

The cheerily strolling Dariel froze in his tracks. “…oh shit.”

Malak sighed. How did he get into these situations?

* * *

 

  
“I will admit,” he said as he fumbled for his Narthecium. “I really did not expect this.”

“Stop fretting.” Malak scowled. “It’s entirely your fault I’m going to die, to absolutely no one’s surprise. It’s embarrassing.”

“Why, that’s positively romantic of you,” Dariel swooned, utterly disregarding his express words. He sat down heavily next to him, and Malak winced as he was dragged into his lap. He tutted. “That was foolish, even for you. I honestly believed you were smarter than that. Serves me right.” He pulled a face and started assessing his wounds.

Dariel turned his face to the side. “And let you die at the hands of imperial hounds? Pathetic end aside, I still haven’t paid you back for the arm.”

He could almost feel Dariel weighing his words, but didn’t dare make eye contact.

“There’s something on your face.” Malak felt a cold thumb wipe away the blood trickling into his eyes. “I believe it may be your nose, but I can’t be entirely sure.”

Amazingly, that pulled a laugh out of him - definitely the blood loss - but it dragged over his shredded throat. It came out as a choking gasp instead, splattering blood on Dariel’s arm. By the Gods, he didn’t even clean it off, Malak noted dizzily. Dariel had the audacity to _shush_ him, as his hands shifted just beyond his limited field of vision, moving with mechanical precision.

Malak winced when he felt something bite his skin, but relaxed once the numbing sensation subsided and left him tingling.

“So? Can you fix me or not?” He asked irritably.

“I’m very sorry.” Dariel solemnly palmed Malak’s eyes shut. "I’ve done what I can to ease your passing. Can you leave me your helm? I have plans for it.“

Malak batted his hand away. "Very funny you vulture. Even if I die, you’re not getting shit for corpse emperor’s day.“

"I’m keeping the helm anyway, you spoilsport.” Dariel sighed. “I can say you’re salvageable, but beyond that I don’t know.” He shrugged casually in a way that suggested yes, he did in fact know. “You’re going to lose the arm though.”

“What a terrible shame.” Malak deadpanned.

“It did serve you surprisingly well for a herbivore xenos foot.” Dariel said, even as he snorted in amusement.

“It came from a death world. Of course it did.”

Not feeling the urge to talk any longer, Malak fell silent, a dull ache settling in his bones. He found himself drifting off, lulled to sleep in the hands of someone he barely trusted.

A sudden, shocking pain lit his arm on fire. He choked in surprise, before the drugs hurriedly smothered it. 

“Oh, you big baby. You didn’t mind half as much when you ate that chainsword.” Dariel noted as bemusedly as he could while sawing through what remained of his arm. He struggled with the white bone for a while before giving it up as a bad job and snapping it off the rest of the way. Slightly perturbed, Malak watched him as he tossed the fuzzy monstrosity away over his shoulder.

“Never thought I’d be glad to see an arm go,” Malak said as he stared over Dariel’s shoulder. “It would be nice if you give me an actual one this time, not another sad excuse for a joke.”

Dariel shrugged as he deftly patched up the stump. “Well I’m afraid I’m all out of spare parts. I’ve already given the White Scar’s one to Kolchien.”

“That sniveling suck-up? It's completely wasted on him. Tell me you’re joking, or I’ll rip it off him myself.”

Dariel grinned, whether at the promise of violence or because he fell for it. “You know I’m only joking. Only the best for you, darling dearest.” He patted his cheek, leaving bloody handprints on his face.

Malak scowled. “Those morons who took off my arm and stabbed me in a multitude of painful places weren’t joking. I think I deserve the best after protecting your sorry face, ‘darling’. I didn’t have to.”

“I am very well capable of handling myself, so yes, you didn’t have to.” Dariel replied lightly, though it sounded suspiciously strained. “You really didn’t have to. What are you, an Imperial Fist?”

Malak felt annoyance build up in the cavity Dariel was rooting around in. “You do know they were here for you? They were waiting. Here. We’ll probably get reports filtering in about now. Good thing you’re from such an 'honorable’ chapter, they would have sabotaged the ship otherwise. And then we’d all be floating in the warp.”

Dariel frowned. “Well of course I was aware of that. I was just hoping-”

“Hoping for what?” A laugh burbled to Malak’s lips. “That they’d leave you alone? Forget what you left in your wake? Forget the _damage_ you did?”

Dariel said nothing, only pulled him closer into his lap. Malak almost regretted saying it. Then felt stupid for feeling that way. 

He wasn’t sure what compelled him say the following words, but it filled the silence in the room.

“Admittedly, it was hilarious.”

Dariel smirked, though it still seemed slightly brittle at the edges.

Malak wanted nothing more than to reach up and smooth it out. …With his fist. What in the warp was he thinking? He knew there was absolutely no explanation for his frankly idiotic behavior. He’d seen Dariel do beautiful, bloody things, he was capable of handling himself without being coddled!

But.. something like that just didn’t belong on his face. Dariel had fun at his expense far too many times, and he knew that gleeful, infuriating grin was never far from the surface. Malak wanted to see it now.

“That’s fine though,” Malak continued after a pause. “Saves me from hunting the bastards myself - let them come to me, haven’t fought lapdogs in a while.”

“And it shows.” Dariel smiled again, and it was the usual, insufferable grin, all teeth. They both fell silent at that, unsure of how to proceed. But Dariel was here solid and real, Malak was more or less intact, and there were three merry corpses piled up on top of each other just waiting to be plundered. He’d get a new greave and Dariel new corpses to play with. That would come later though. Right now they were both alive and breathing, and that counted for something.

He didn’t know how long he lay there content with that knowledge, draped limply across his lap, but time passed slowly, almost leisurely. He drifted off to sleep cradled by cold arms, bloody fingers running through his hair.


End file.
